Deadly Decision

by Regina Smeltzer

  “Let it go. Just like that?”

  “What else can I do?”

  Ted dabbed at the canvas with his brush, adding bits of yellow.

  A mosquito landed on my leg and injected her proboscis into my skin. She needed blood to grow her eggs. I was willing to share, but mosquitoes also brought disease. What kind of stupid plan was that for creation? What else in God’s plan was flawed?

  “When do you paint the flowers?” I asked, needing to move my thoughts somewhere else.

  “They’re already there. It’s called abstract expressionism. A lot of us Christian artists are using this format, but it’s not new. Actually it started around 1920 with Jackson Pollock.”

  “So the flowers are there, but you have to have faith to see them.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Abstract expressionism, huh?” Talking to Ted had only added to my frustration. “I had better let you get on with abstracting your expressions.” I walked out of the workshop into the hot sun, my black mood failing to provide shelter from the scorching heat.

  Everything stable in my life was gone, and I drifted as the tide willed.

  

  After supper, when the temperature had dropped to eighty--still hot for this northerner but as cool as it was going to get before the mosquitoes descended in earnest—I grabbed the hoe and headed to the back of the yard. Manual labor didn’t require any brainpower of its own, and I had a lot of thinking to do.

  Between my earlier hacking, and the trampling by the drug investigators, the marijuana patch was now a weed infested square of sandy soil. It was visible from anywhere in the back yard.

  Finding marijuana at the old Barnet place had been local front page news. The story had attracted the curious like garbage attracts rats. Between Ted and me, we had chased a dozen young kids out of the yard since the article had been printed. Mitch hadn’t shown much interest one way or the other. When I quizzed him about it, he acted bored. Not the reaction I expected from someone who had just lost his crop; but then maybe he had another supply growing somewhere else.

  The interest in the marijuana patch would remain until the evidence of its existence was gone. At the end of an hour, I had managed to clear a section of weeds extending from the edge of the marijuana patch all the way to the foundation of the old summer kitchen. As far as thinking, I had gotten nowhere. The ghost boys were still lingering but unable to contact me, Ted was still my son-in-law, Mitch was still strange, and the demon was still missing.

  Trina approached, holding a glass.

  I gulped the cold water gratefully.

  “You’ve really been working. Devil got your tail?”

  “What?”

  “You used to ask me that when I was working hard. You said I acted like the devil was after me. It was supposed to be funny, but I never got it.”

  I thought of my experience in Williamson Park, the swirling entity trying to force its way into my body. Is the devil after me?

  “It looks nice,” Trina said.

  “I’ve been working to get rid of your marijuana plot. After all the lectures I gave you in high school…”

  “Dad,” Trina laughed.

  “Mostly I want to keep the kids from trampling through the yard.”

  “There isn’t much here to trample.”

  “I’ve been thinking. How about a gazebo?” I put the empty glass in the grass and moved to the stone foundation of the old summer kitchen. “We could put it here. And then we could plant some of those azalea bushes around it, to make it look nice.”

  “That would be pretty.” She plopped onto the grass and stretched out her long legs.

  “I can run some wiring out to it, and install a ceiling fan. That’ll keep most of the mosquitoes away in the evenings, at least for a while.”

  “Strange how you and I both ended up not doing what we were supposed to do.”

  “What do you mean?” I sat beside her in the moist grass.

  “You were supposed to be a lawyer. All the men in your family were lawyers. Instead, you’re a school teacher. And I am a school teacher, when what I really love is fixing up this house and starting a business…”

  “But you went to school to be a teacher.”

  “I know.”

  She had never told me this before. Had I pressured her to be something she didn’t want to be? “Maybe we’re the family rebels.”

  She lay back in the grass, her arms folded under her head. I followed her example, remembering the nights we used to do this. We would weave the most elaborate stories about outer space, and the stars, and what might really be out there. I longed for those years.

  “Aunt Betsy called today.”

  My back stiffened. “Oh? What did she want?”

  “She wanted to know how you were, said you hadn’t called in a while.”

  “The phone works both ways.”

  “You should call her.”

  “You know my phone was lost in the wreck.”

  She rolled toward me. “You can always use mine. What did you fight about?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “Then why won’t you call her?”

  I looked away from her questioning eyes, back to the spot where the marijuana had been growing. “I didn’t see Mitch today. The police finally get around to raiding his house?”

  “He’s working extra at the garage. I really think you’re wrong about Mitch.”

  I was surprised when she let the subject drop so easily. It wasn’t like her to let me off the hook.

  “How?”

  “You see a lot of kids at school. And I trust your judgment, I really do.”

  “But?”

  “But Mitch is not a bad person.”

  “A rattlesnake looks harmless until he’s backed into a corner. Just keep your eyes open when he’s around, that’s all I ask. If he’s smoking pot, it won’t hurt anyone but him. Except now he’ll have to grow his crop somewhere else.”

  She sat up, her back stiff. “Why are you so absolutely sure it was Mitch?”

  “Who else could it have been?”

  Trina snatched the empty glass off the grass and stood. “It wasn’t Mitch.”

  I watched her retreating back, and then returned to my hoe, forcing it deep into the sandy soil.

  There was something I had yet to discover about this house. The thought made me uneasy. So far, discovery had been painful. As for Betsy, she would call when she was ready.

  

  “Good night Dad.” Trina stretched and walked toward the stairs. “You headed to bed soon?”

  “After I catch the rest of the news.”

  “Don’t stay up too late.”

  “I’ll be up as soon as the news is over. Maybe I can trap some of those Palmetto bugs of yours before I turn in.”

  “If you can do that, stay up all night! The jar’s under the sink.”

  “Don’t need the jar,”

  Trina’s mouth turned down. “Then don’t catch them. It’s not their fault they ended up in my kitchen. We just need to put them back in their own place. Besides, the one you stomp might be a dad with a family, or a mom with babies to feed.”

  “Trina, go to bed,” I said, laughing.

  Her soft spot for everything living had created many funny memories. Obviously, she had forgotten our earlier disagreement.

  The news ended. I remained in the recliner.

  A late movie came on.

  The sound of gunshots woke me. I looked at my watch. One AM. Rambo was after the bad guy. I hoped he would have better luck with his problems than I was having with mine. After a glance in the kitchen for bugs, I headed up the stairs.

  As I reached for the light switch, my arm brushed against something stringy, and I jerked in response, clawing at my skin with my opposite hand. Spider webs! I groped for the light switch and flicked on the overhead light. I looked toward the wall, along the floor, all the space that surrounded me. Where there was a web, there had to be a spider. Any re
maining web must have been jerked from its location by my frantic motions; I couldn’t find any trace of it.

  I remembered the thick molding stretched along each wall, and how I had admired it. Molding. Spiders love to lurk along the floor against the molding. I slipped off one shoe and clutched it in my hand, and started to walk the perimeter of the room.

  This time the webs touched my face. I ran to the middle of the room, swiping my eyes, my chin. More webs. My body jerked as though on fire.

  I ran into the hall, panting. A glance toward Trina and Ted’s room showed the door still closed. Listening, I didn’t hear any sound coming from down the hall.

  It has to be one huge spider. Or a nest of tiny ones. Gathering courage, covering my face with one hand and grasping the shoe with the other one, and entered the room. Nothing along the wall. Nothing under the bed. Nothing on the bed. Nothing.

  I crawled into Barbara’s bed and pulled the sheet up to my chin.

  A neighborhood dog barked, and then another, and soon the noise of a yowling pack of canines filtered through the screened window. Rolling over, I buried my head in the pillow.

  The wind churned. I flipped onto my back, tucking the sheet against me as I moved. The leaves on the trees swished like a woman’s silk dress.

  Or was it leaves? I held my breath, listening. Was someone in the house? There it was again, a faint sound coming from somewhere in my room.

  Without moving, keeping my breaths even, I scanned the darkness.

  Black tentacles stretched across the floor and crept onto the bed. I tried to shift, to avoid the darkness, but it slithered closer. My ears strained for the sound.

  The air was thick, heavy.

  No one was in my room. I knew it, just as I knew the darkness that pressed the air out of my chest was only the night. But I kept listening, my mouth dry.

  Fear held me in its trap, just as it had every night since I changed rooms—not fear of what I saw, but of what I knew.

  I knew I was not alone in the room, and it wasn’t spiders that shared my space.

  14

  I ached to call Betsy, but dreaded her probing questions. Thinking about what had happened in the attic, how close I had been to pure evil, sickened me. I wasn’t anywhere near ready to talk about it. I wasn’t sure I ever would be. The memory alone terrified me.

  The week passed in a blur. I had my tasks to do, and was making progress, but I was tired--not the kind of good-tired one gets from long hours of labor, but an exhaustion that a full night in bed does not fix. I dragged myself forward, barely remembering what I had done the day before, and caring even less.

  Since breaking the ice with Ted a few days ago, so to speak, I found myself wandering every afternoon to his small workshop. My visits to his space allowed me to escape Trina’s concerned gaze.

  When I reached the renovated garage, I discovered a plastic chair had been placed where I usually stood. I didn’t ask Ted about it, and he didn’t bring it up. My son-in-law elevated himself a notch on my hypothetical totem pole.

  The chair legs spread as I settled my bulk between the molded arms. “Mitch seems to be hanging around an awful lot for someone who doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “He’s lonely.”

  “So where’s his family?”

  “Doesn’t have one, as far as I know. He became a ward of the state as a kid, and moved from foster home to foster home. That wasn’t much of a life.”

  “Sounds like your life.”

  “I was one of the lucky ones. My foster parents loved me like their own.”

  “They loved you so much you’ve been on your own since you graduated from high school.”

  “Something bothering you, Bill?” Ted asked, staring at me.

  Words built in me, and I couldn’t shut them off even though my conscience screamed against it. “It just doesn’t seem like love to dump someone when they turn eighteen and don’t get child support checks anymore.”

  Ted’s face turned red. I had pushed too far, but didn’t care. He had to get his head out of the sand. If he didn’t understand commitment, how could he love Trina?

  “You know that’s not true. We’ve talked about my foster parents before. They waited until I graduated from high school to do what God called them to do.”

  “Take off to the opposite side of the world?”

  “They manage a safe house for missionary families in Ethiopia. Dad was the manager of Denny’s for years, and anyone who ever came to our house always said they felt at home and welcome, thanks to Mom’s hospitality.”

  Ted returned his attention to the canvas. “I could have gone with them,” he mumbled. “They asked me, but I wanted to go to college, and they agreed I should follow my own dream.” He looked up, a challenge etched deep into his face.

  “I’m just trying to understand Mitch.”

  “Have you tried talking to Mitch?” Ted jabbed his brush in blue paint, and stroked pigment on the canvas, creating another picture of nothing.

  The skin on my face itched, and I scratched at several days’ growth of beard. I was still angry with Ted for refusing to accept that souls can linger. For some reason I had thought Ted was smarter than to ignore what was right in front of him. The voice of reason always won out over the unproven speculation of Christian beliefs. Why had my eyes been closed to the truth for so many years? Barbara might be messing with satanic spirits, but her words made sense. What happens to freedom of choice when we die?

  Too many people have had paranormal experiences, myself included, to deny its existence. And every culture in the world believed you could contact spirits of the dead. Who was I to say the whole world was wrong?

  “You still praying about the ghost boys, Ted?” I figured I had nothing to lose by trying one more time.

  “I figured you had made peace with the experience.”

  “What if people can linger after death?”

  Ted sighed as he looked up “They don’t. It’s in the Bible.”

  “But what if we’re reading the Bible wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The chair beneath me groaned as I leaned forward. “Think of the witch hunts in Salem. All those women burned to death because of superstition.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “They didn’t understand science. I read somewhere that the seizures the kids were having were caused by the bread. There was a fungus on the grain, and it caused the seizures. People back then thought seizures meant demon possession. We know better today.”

  “What does that have to do with ghosts?”

  “Suppose a hundred years from now, when we understand the paranormal better, that new knowledge gives us a clearer understanding of some of the scriptures?”

  “I think the Bible is clear.”

  My face felt hot. Why did Ted always have to argue with me? Why bother trying to explain anything to Mr. Know-It-All anyway. “If it’s so clear, why are there so many denominations? And look at Darlington; must be a church on every corner. If the Bible’s so clear, why aren’t we all worshipping together, one big church family, instead of dozens of little groups doing their own thing?”

  “Bill—”

  “The truth is we don’t know everything. Someone told me, and it makes sense, that if God created us to have freedom of choice, why would that freedom stop at death? You always talk about freedom of choice. Those words have come right out of your mouth.”

  Ted looked at me wide-eyed, like he was staring at the devil himself. Good. Give him something to think about. “Don’t we have a choice when we leave planet Earth?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Ted replied. “I don’t know why anyone would want to stay here with Heaven waiting for them.”

  “Just how much do you love Trina, anyway?” I hissed, and stomped out into the yard, Ted’s eyes burning a hole into my back.

  

  Trina wanted the door into the dining room widened and arched. It had taken hours to
remove the frame, cut the plaster, remove old lath strips and studs from each side equally, and then mold the arch out of metal and plaster. I had just finished sanding. Now, all that remained was priming and painting. I looked at the nearly completed project. This was the first time I had arched a door, and had to admit it looked good.

  But the mess was another matter. My morning’s work had created soft white plaster dust that had settled over everything in the dining room, hall, and kitchen. When Trina got home, she would be upset. Strange how women expect things to be done without making a mess. Catching a reflection of myself in the window, I looked as white as I had always imagined ghosts to be, before my recent awakening. My new understanding of the paranormal gave me a one-up on most Christians and a knowledge that ghosts weren’t necessarily white and filmy. Why wouldn’t Christians move into the twenty-first century and embrace new information provided by modern technology? Instead, they remained shackled to old-world thinking, including my son-in-law and sister.

  Betsy. My chest tightened. I wiped the dust off my hands on equally dusty pants and pulled the new phone, a gift from Trina and Ted, out of my pocket. I hit speed dial. Three rings.

  “Bill.”

  My tongue stuck to my mouth. “Bets, how are you?”

  “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I sent her home.”

  “Oh?”

  “She acted weird when she went into the attic, like she had a seizure or something.”

  “Did it upset Trina?”

  “Trina wasn’t there. It was just the two of us.”

  “You went to the attic alone with her? After all we talked about? Bill—”

  “I can handle myself, Betsy. I’m not stupid. You need to open your mind a little. Times are different now.”

  Betsy sighed. The line buzzed with unspoken words.

  “You were right, Bets. Barbara was trouble. I’ll man-up and admit it. But she did help me realize there is a whole world out there our church is keeping us from experiencing. If you could have seen those ghost boys, you would understand.”